Not Quite Darcy (7 page)

He grinned at her, water pouring off his nose as if it were a spout. “Lovely weather we've been having lately, don't you think?”

Eliza's serious expression began to break apart, like ice cracking under a spring sun. A hint of a smile touched her lips. “Well, damn,” she said. “I was not quite expecting that.”

“What were you expecting?”

“Something worse,” was all she said.

He reached inside his coat for a handkerchief. By some minor miracle, it was merely slightly damp. He pressed his handkerchief into her hand. She unfolded it and pressed it against her face.

“I suppose it's a rather an inadequate offering considering the circumstances,” he said. “Perhaps a towel might be more appropriate.”

She shivered. “Or a sheet.” She did not meet his gaze.

He reached out a hand to comfort her, then caught himself and tugged on his hair instead.

She looked down at the now sopping, white handkerchief in her hand. “WHB,” she murmured. “What's the H for?”

William smiled. Her conversation continued to travel to the most unexpected destinations. “Nothing,” he said at last.

She shook her head, then smiled again. It was a little more genuine this time. “Nope. I'm pretty sure that ‘Nothing' starts with an N.”

He laughed. Soaking wet, standing on a porch with muddy sheets piled at their feet, she still managed to shine.

“Harry, then,” she said. “What could be more English than Harry? Or is it Henry?”

“Horace,” he admitted. She made a face as if she'd just smelled something foul, coaxing another laugh from him. It really was a horrible middle name.

“So, William Horace Brown, why did you come to the backyard?”

His smile faded in an instant. This was the moment he was supposed to lecture her about the importance of…what was that again?

“You don't have to say it,” she said. “I know I'm in trouble. Mrs. McLaughlin is really mad about the sheet thing.” She shivered again and looked at him with a serious expression. “Are you going to fire me?”

He shook his head.

She took a step toward him, so close now that their bodies nearly touched. “It's okay, William. Just get on with it.”

He clenched his fists, resisting the compulsion to reach out to touch his fingertips to her damp cheeks. “I'll do nothing of the kind.”

She gave him a puzzled glance.

“And I'll remind you, miss—who is the employer and who is the employee. You really shouldn't offer counsel regarding my employment practices. It's terribly presumptuous.” He smiled to make it brilliantly clear he was joking.

She tilted her head. “So, you're not going to fire me?”

“Although a fire sounds very tempting at this juncture, I assure you, I'm not going to dismiss you. Not even a little bit. Though should Mrs. McLaughlin inquire, I gave you a most severe talking-to.”

Her green eyes swam with tears. If she began to cry, it would utterly undo him. Mercifully, she did not.

“Thank you, William.” It was the second time she'd first-named him. He opened his mouth to tell her that she really oughtn't to use such informalities, when she wrapped her arms about his middle, embracing him quickly before stepping away. “Sorry, but I couldn't help a hug. Though that is probably not on my list of ‘Acceptable Things to Do with One's Employer.'”

He reached up to tug on his hair, but as his head was utterly sopping, he ended up returning his hand to his pocket. “Well, I say.” He coughed nervously. “You should rather get out of those wet clothes. You'll catch your death.”

Looking down at his own soaked suit coat, he realized the same could be said of him. Strange how he hadn't noticed that until now. Very peculiar indeed.

“You're a good man, William,” she said as she opened the back door.

“I'm trying,” he said under his breath. “God knows, I'm trying.”

Chapter Eight

When Saturday morning rolled around, Eliza had never been more grateful for a few days off. Unfortunately, Victorians didn't seem to quite understand about weekends. She dragged herself out of bed with a few muttered curses about labor unions.

While polishing wood, Dora gave Eliza the disappointing news that Eliza's time off consisted of a half day, on Sunday afternoon. When Eliza asked her about overtime, Dora just laughed about “new-fangled ideas from the Yankees” and continued shining up the table legs. Their conversation led, quite naturally, to the question of payday. Dora informed Eliza that she wasn't to be paid until the end of the month. Eliza realized, with a sinking feeling, that since York and Lancaster hadn't included any funds in her luggage, she was out of luck when it came to—well, doing anything. Even if they'd given her money, between caring for Beatrix Brown and frantically trying to keep up with maid duties, she had precious little time to contemplate Mr. York's whispered advice to keep an eye out for an American.

The one thing in Eliza's plus column was that Mrs. McLaughlin had eased up on her. Eliza suspected that the source of the woman's newfound patience was due to William, but she had no way of knowing for sure. Since the episode in the back garden, she hadn't seen much of him. When he wasn't tending to his mother, he seemed to spend all of his time at the club lately.

Strange, stuffy, charming William. For some reason, whenever she was near him, she found it nearly impossible to keep her subservient Victorian maid mask attached. Dora was an amiable enough coworker, but William was the only person who felt like an ally in her mission—though one she rarely spoke to.

He always seemed to be there when she was at her worst, however. Like that night in the library when she'd just arrived. Or when he'd helped her pull sheets in from the rain. She was teetering on just sitting down in the mud and shrieking for Lancaster and York to please just appear already, when dear William arrived. Calm and steady. True, he wasn't a dashing knight on a horse, or even a witty Lord at a ball. But while she huddled on the porch and tried to pull her shit together, sweet, steady William was hauling around muddy sheets and trying to ease her tears away.

And from where Eliza stood, that beat the hell out of witty repartee and smoldering glances from across a ballroom floor.

No, no, no. You're not going to engage in any fantasy with William Brown. Forget all about that. You're not supposed to form any lasting attachments. Even if you could, the Lord of the Manor could never consider a maid his equal. Even perfect Mr. Darcy wouldn't do such a thing. And William is nothing like Darcy.

When Eliza caught her thoughts straying, she forced her concentration back to her mission. By the time Sunday afternoon finally came, she had little choice but to conduct her search for random Americans within walking distance of the Brown home. At least she'd have a break from wearing her horrible maid uniform, if only for an afternoon. As soon as she finished with lunch, she ran upstairs to change into the only non-black dress she owned: a simple blue and white checked frock.

Eliza practically skipped as she slipped out the back entrance, muttering, “Free at last, free at last. Thank God almighty, I'm free at last.” She turned down Archimedes Road and headed toward Hampstead Heath, which was, according to Dora, the big draw in the neighborhood.

A “heath” turned out to be less chocolaty than the name led her to believe, and far more park like. Though her search had been fantastically unfruitful when it came to finding any of her countrymen, walking through the wilds of the Heath was delightful. It wasn't at all stuffy and confined, as she'd expected an English park to be, but a wild place which lit her imagination with visions of
Alice in Wonderland
chasing a hare to some mysterious destination. After a few pleasant hours wandering in the late spring sunshine, she wound her way down High Street, window shopping.

Her stomach rumbled as she looked through the sweet shop window at the most impossibly intricate confections. It really wouldn't have killed Lancaster and York to have thrown in just a little spending money.

When the sky began to darken, Eliza walked back to the Brown home briskly. As she entered the back door, she nearly collided with Mrs. MacLaughlin who was thudding down the servant's stairs wearing a very stern look.

How amazing,
Eliza thought,
I can manage to piss this woman off when I'm not even within shouting distance.

“The Master had to leave,” Mrs. MacLaughlin said. “He's left a note on your door because you were out.” She emphasized that last bit as though “you were out” was the moral equivalent of “you were dealing black tar heroin out on Hampstead Heath again.”

Eliza nodded and dashed up the stairs. She glanced up at her door to see a note pinned to the center with
Bessie
written on the front in an elegant, looping script. She unfolded the sheet of paper.

I regret that I wasn't able to speak with you about this directly. I wasn't aware that your afternoon off was today. Please forgive my oversight.

I shall be unable to attend Mother this evening, due to an event at my club. I would be indebted to you if you would keep an eye to her until my return.

I remain, in gratitude, yours,

William Brown

She smiled to herself, then folded the bit of paper and stepped into her room. She opened her wardrobe door, unfastened her valise and placed the note in the bottom of the bag. Just before closing the door, she glanced up at her meager garments. She supposed she really should slip into her maid gear again. But it had been so nice to spend the afternoon in something bright and blue. She just couldn't force herself back in black.

Eliza hummed an old AC/DC tune and headed for the library instead. Though she tried to divert her mind with books, it didn't work. Her thoughts kept turning to her mission and the fact that she had a grand total of
nothing
when it came to figuring out what she was supposed to accomplish. How on earth was she going to figure anything out when she had so little to work with? York's hint about an American hadn't helped in the slightest since she herself was the only American that she'd heard of. She'd questioned Dora, even Mrs. MacLaughlin, hoping that a new American family had moved into the neighborhood, or another American servant had shown up somewhere along the street. They had not.

She wondered if Lancaster was giving York meaningful glances right now. Little looks that said, “I told you she was useless.” Lancaster could join Mrs. MacLaughlin's Anti-Eliza Fan Club, she was sure.

Eliza paced along the length of the wall of the small library. The gaslight flickered, revealing various titles as she strode past. Nothing on the shelves caught her eye, however, and she found herself drawn to a stack of books perched on the edge of the desk. There were four books, all quite thick. A note lay on top:
“Mr. Brown, These volumes might assist in understanding your mother and her current ailment.”
It was signed
“Dr. Theodore Hill.”

Considering how horribly out of depth she felt with her nursing duties, she supposed she ought to give them a try. She took the first book on the pile—
Woman Physiologically Considered
by Alexander Walker. It had a medically promising title, at any rate. And if nothing else, it would be a change of pace. She curled into the cozy green wingback chair, tucked a quilt about her legs and cracking open the heavy volume, began to read.

Subconsciously, she was aware the corner clock was striking eleven. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she heard footsteps coming up the hall and the click of the library door. But her frontal lobes were so engrossed in what she was reading, some troublesome part of her brain decided to pay it no mind at all.

“Hello?” William's voice made her jump.

“Will—Mr. Brown!”

He stepped through the door.

Since the only light in the room was the gas lamp on the desk, his face remained in shadow. Even poorly illuminated, however, she could see that he was more rumpled looking than usual.

“Forgive my intrusion,” William said. “I seem to have made a habit of startling you while you're attempting to read. Is everything all right? Is my mother—”

“Oh, your mother's fine. I was just trying to find something medical to read and saw the books the doctor sent. I hope that's all right.” She swallowed. Even in her time, grabbing books off someone's desk was pushing social rules.

William only smiled. “I'm pleased that you're so interested in my mother's care.” He hesitated in the doorway. After an awkward pause, he spoke again. “Did you find anything of interest?”

Eliza made a face and thunked the back of the book.

William chuckled, a low baritone. How surprising. Laughter hadn't quite been the reaction she'd expected from him. He closed the door quietly, careful not to wake his mother.

“Terribly dull, is it?” he asked.

“Have you 
read
 this thing?”

“I didn't get very far, I will confess.” He tilted his head, glancing at the book. “What do you dislike about it?”

“Well, how about this for starters?” Eliza flipped to a page she'd marked.
“‘It is evident that the man, possessing reasoning faculties, muscular power, and courage to employ, is qualified for being a protector: the woman, being little capable of reasoning, feeble, and timid, requires protection. Under such circumstances, the man naturally governs: the woman as naturally obeys.'”

She looked at him expectantly.

“Ah, the fortunate woman that is Mrs. Walker.” He pushed off from the door and stepped toward her.

“Little capable of reasoning,” she echoed, muttering. “So, you disagree with this?”

“That I do. I am a modern Englishman.”

“Indeed. God Save the King,” she replied, confident that she sounded properly nineteenth century.

“Queen,” William murmured.

“Oh, that's right. Queen! I have a hard time remembering who's on the throne now.” She winced. She knew better than that too. Queen Victoria had been pretty key to naming this the Victorian Age, after all.

When he took another step toward her, the fluttering gaslight revealed his face. A large red gash marked his chin. It was a fresh cut—no longer bleeding, but clearly no more than an hour old.

“Oh, no. What happened to you?”

“Ah, I took a rather spectacular spill in the street, I'm loath to admit.” He glanced at the ceiling nervously. When he moved his hand up to hide the cut on his chin, she could see his hands were in similar condition, his knuckles swollen and scraped.

“Your hands too?”

“I'm afraid I'm rather a mess. I should have tended to the wounds, but I was anxious to check on Mother first, you understand.” He turned to leave.

“Let me.” She leapt up. “I know where they keep the bandages. I'll be back in a flash.”

Without pausing for further questions about his injuries or how he'd obtained them, Eliza rushed down the stairs to the pantry. When she'd burned her hand earlier that week, Mrs. MacLaughlin had treated her with a Victorian first aid kit which had been on a shelf in the back of the pantry. Eliza found the small box of supplies with little trouble and rifled through the collection of bottles and little metal tins. Salve and cotton bandages were easy to find but she struck out on antibiotic cream. She had a sneaking suspicion that she'd come along
before
 antibiotics.

Returning to the library, she found William seated in the green chair she'd been sitting in earlier, sipping from a glass of amber-colored liquid.

“Your hand?” Eliza knelt before him.

He placed the glass down on the table and held his hands out to her, palms down. His torn knuckles told the story. He'd been in a fight and a prolonged one, based on the swelling of his joints.

“The injuries on your hands also happened in your fall? You caught yourself with the back of your hands?”

“Rather clumsy of me, I know.” He stared at his glass, avoiding her gaze. Such a bad liar.

“Is that whiskey?” She gestured toward the glass.

He nodded.

“I'm just going to dab a bit of this on, to disinfect.”

She soaked a portion of the gauze with alcohol and touched it lightly to his knuckles. He didn't wince, despite the fact that it had to sting terribly. The only hint he was in any pain was his tightly clenched jaw and a muscle tic in his cheek. His mama's boy exterior covered something far steelier than Eliza would have imagined.

She bound the wound, wrapping cloth strips around his left hand and tying the ends securely while William took deep sips of whiskey with his free hand.

“Will—Mr. Brown—” she began, but he interrupted her with a laugh.

“You've addressed me as William before, you know.”

“I did? I mean, I know I slipped up tonight, but—”

“It's an unusual habit, but then you're not a usual sort at all, are you, Bessie?”

“You weren't really at your club tonight at all, were you?” she blurted, in a transparent attempt to change the subject, to put him on the spot.

“You're not…accusing me of lying, are you?” Though his words sounded as though she'd insulted him, his tone was remarkably placid. Congenial, even. He took another slow sip of whiskey.

Emboldened by his response, she cocked a grin at him. “I believe I am, sir.” She couldn't help but wonder if the reason for his injuries were somehow tied to her mission. “Where were you, really?”

“Could it be a secret? You've a secret of your own, haven't you?”

Eliza's heart stuttered. Every time she succeeded in putting him on the spot, he managed to reverse her position. A very deft feat for a shy Englishman.